


Dancing Cheek to Cheek

by idelthoughts



Series: Henry/Abigail Fics [2]
Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: 1940s, F/M, Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3251786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/pseuds/idelthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night in 1945, at the first USO hosted dance in months, the Allied troops and relief forces are taking a night away from the realities of war.  Abigail is determined to get at least one dance out of Dr. Morgan before the night is over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing Cheek to Cheek

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of the [Sleepless in New York ficathon collection](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Sleepless_in_New_York_Forever_Ficathon)! Be sure to read all the other great fics!
> 
> A hefty thank you, as always, to [pipsqueak119](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pipsqueak119/pseuds/pipsqueak119), [washingwater](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WashingWater/pseuds/WashingWater), and [SpaceCadet72](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacecadet72/pseuds/Spacecadet72) for listening to me whine, moan and complain my way through this entire fic, and helping me get it done in time despite its unexpected length. You ladies are magical.
> 
> Also: [a playlist,](http://grooveshark.com/playlist/Dancing+Cheek+To+Cheek/103905316) if you want to get into a 1940's Henry/Abigail wartime romance headspace while you read.
> 
> Fanart by [thefandomchronicles](http://thefandomchronicles.tumblr.com/) for this fic can be found [here](http://truthisademurelady.tumblr.com/post/118253724450/guys-thefandomchronicles-finished-the-first-of), [here](http://truthisademurelady.tumblr.com/post/119326679785/my-second-forever-fanart-commission-from), and [here](http://truthisademurelady.tumblr.com/post/119896737890/my-third-and-final-forever-fanart-commission-from).

The girls were crammed together in the back of the transport truck—nurses, VADs, support staff, all primped, shined up and ready for the night out—and trying like hell to stay upright as they rattled over the muddy, pot-holed roads towards town.  
  
Abigail braced herself on the metal rail behind her, peering out the window frame.  Nightly blackouts were still in force, making the town near invisible against the darkening skyline, but she could just make out buildings and signs of civilization.  She pulled back when a gust of wind hit, huddling close to Ruby at her side and clamping a hand over the scarf protecting her hair.    
  
The truck jolted hard and all the girls shrieked in unison, followed hard upon by giggles and laughter.  Julie, the VAD coordinator, slapped a hand hard against the grimy truck cab window.    
  
“Oy, Danny, keep us on the road!” she howled.  “Precious cargo back here, you lump!”  
  
A masculine voice shouted a response from inside the cab, followed by a chorus of deep laughs from the other three servicemen crammed in the front, but no one in the back made it out over their own cackling laughter, the engine noise, and the bumps and creaks of the truck rolling on.    
  
First dance in two months, and the first time there was enough of a lull to give a good chunk of personnel a night out.  Bless the enterprising USO coordinators who’d arranged everything, inviting all the Allied services in the area, negotiating space and transport, and if word had it right, a proper full band to play for the night.  There’d been nothing but talk of who was going with whom, trading cigarettes and chocolate for rouge, shoe polish, and hair pins. The thought of real music that wasn’t piped through tinny radio speakers was too exciting to bear.  
  
A flask was thrust into Abigail’s hands out of god knows where, and she took a small sip, choking it down as best she could.  Whatever it was, it was vile, harsh enough to make her throat and stomach burn, and Ruby laughed at her and plucked it from Abigail’s hands as she sputtered.  Ruby took a shot and passed it on, and it was Abigail’s turn to laugh as Ruby coughed loudly.    
  
Abigail tucked the wool blanket a little tighter around the sides of her legs to keep the rough truck bench seat from catching at her stockings, which were still in good nick after a year’s adventures in her sparse kit.  The borrowed blue dress under her heavy uniform coat was a good enough fit after some artful pinning and tucking, and though she would have traded a month’s rations for a nice pair of dancing shoes, her practical black heels were buffed to a shine and would suffice.  There wasn’t a girl in camp who had a closet full of dancing shoes, much as they all wished, and at least this way her feet wouldn’t hurt any worse than after a long night on the ward.  
  
The familiar sound of cobblestone beneath tire replaced the slop of wet mud, and they were in town.  Another minute, and the truck rolled to a stop and the brakes slammed on.  They all shrieked with laughter again, knocking into each other and righting themselves.  The low back doors opened and the servicemen riding up front scrambled to throw down some steps, helping the girls out.    
  
Abigail took the proffered hand and jumped down, straightening her skirt.    
  
“Alright Miss, have a fun time,” the private said with a wink as he released her and turned to help the next girl behind her.  
  
Ruby, close behind her, was already halfway to lighting her cigarette as they walked up to the hall.  She offered her a puff but Abigail declined, too excited and sure that it would only unsettle her stomach further.  The sound of voices and music was muffled, and then when the front doors opened, a blast of merriment hit them before the door was hustled closed again to keep from breaking the blackout.  
  
Abigail untied the headscarf and tucked it into her uniform coat, pulled off the coat and then did a turn for Ruby.  
  
“Okay?”  
  
“Looks good,” Ruby said as she blew out smoke into the night sky, giving Abigail a once-over.  “You are something else tonight.  So, spill already.  Who is it?”  
  
“You’re being silly,”  Abigail laughed.  
  
Ruby’s persistence was legendary, and so far Abigail had managed to deflect her curiosity.  She wasn’t about to start gossiping about her fancies until they had substance worth talking about.  So far, despite heavy hints and enjoyable coffee breaks and the best hours she’d ever spent on duty thanks to his company, her interest in Dr. Morgan had depressingly little substance.  
  
Ruby took a last drag on the cigarette, then braced herself on Abigail’s arm as she balanced herself to grind the cigarette out on the sole of her shoe.  
  
“Fort Knox has nothing on you,” Ruby grumbled.  
  
“Loose lips, sweetheart,” Abigail said, badly imitating Ruby’s American accent, and Ruby made a face at her.  
  
The second transport truck rolled up in the narrow cobblestone street behind the one they’d just exited, and the sound of boisterous voices filled the night air as the men from camp piled out.  By the sounds of their loud enthusiasm, whatever illicit moonshine had been passed around had made its way to their truck as well.    
  
Among them, she spotted Dr. Morgan mid-conversation with Dr. Collins, bending Collins’ ear as usual; the man could talk for England—until you asked him something personal.  Then it was charming smiles, gentle deflection, and then nothing.  It only made Abigail more determined to get something out of him; she’d always been contrary like that.    
  
Dr. Morgan looked up and met her eye, and Abigail smiled.  It seemed to take him a moment to remember he could do the same in return.  Every time he looked at her, it was like he paused for a moment before restarting.  That brief wide-eyed, startled expression, like she’d surprised him with her existence; whatever it was, it was terribly charming.  
  
Only when Collins said something to him did he break his attention away from Abigail and return to the conversation.  The men flooded up the stairs to the hall past Abigail and Ruby.  
  
“Good evening, Nurse Rayne, Nurse Kuyper,” Dr. Morgan said with a nod to them both as he passed them.  
  
“Good evening, Dr. Morgan,” Abigail responded, and Ruby echoed her.  
  
She was certain she was grinning like an idiot, but the prospect of finally getting to spend some time with Henry—Dr. Morgan, she corrected herself—off-duty was exciting.  His attention stuck on her for an extra second before he broke off and continued into the hall.  
  
Ruby was watching her when she turned back, an eyebrow raised.  
  
"What, seriously, Dr. Morgan?  Oh honey, don't even bother.  We've all tried climbing that tree.  No dice.  Whatever he's got on his mind, it's not girls."  
  
“Just one dance,” she said, holding up a finger.  “Just one.”  
  
Ruby shook her head and looped her arm in Abigail’s, pulling them towards the beckoning sounds of the dance.  
  
“Best of luck.  You’re gonna need it.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
Ruby ditched her in a red hot second, dragged off to dance by the young soldier who’d just finished his long recuperation from a bullet to the shoulder, and had all but fallen in love with Ruby over the few weeks of his stay in her ward.  
  
Abigail did a scan of the room and located Dr. Morgan in the corner of the hall.  He had a cup of wine in hand, standing half in the conversation circle three other doctors had formed, but mostly turned away to watch the floor of milling dancers picking partners in anticipation of the next song.  She wove her way through the crowd, finally making it, approaching from his side.  
  
She cleared her throat and he looked over, startled.  He turned his back on the other doctors with a warm smile towards her.  
  
“Nurse, pleasure to see you again.”  
  
“And you, Dr. Morgan.  I was hoping you’d come.”  
  
He paused, that same odd little stumble in his thoughts, before indicating the circle of chatting men behind him.  
  
“Well, Collins convinced me.  We’ve had an ongoing debate about the latest shipment of penicillin and the appropriate dosage.  I’ve been running some tests, and I don’t think the concentration is commensurate with the information they sent along.  I can’t say I think much of this new processing method, but I’m certain if we can keep tabs on the concentration before we assign the treatment regimens, we’ll be fine.”  
  
“Always on duty?” she teased gently.  
  
“Medical advances always seem to outstrip my ability to keep up with them,” he said, his tone lifting with enthusiasm as he warmed to the topic.  “I’ve always found it fascinating that—”  
  
He stopped when an elbow from behind jostled him, and he made a deft move to keep his cup from slopping over.  Collins leaned back towards him, shooting Henry a disgusted look.  
  
“Get her a drink, you twit.”    
  
Collins rolled his eyes and shook his head with a smile at Abigail, and then ducked back to the other doctors.  Dr. Morgan, left with his jaw unhinged, turned his attention back to Abigail.  She had to lift a hand to try to mask the laughter threatening to overtake her, and Henry chuckled, embarrassed.  
  
“Pardon my manners.  Would you like a drink?” he offered.  
  
“That would be very nice, thank you,”  Abigail said.  
  
Rather than offering her his arm and escorting her to the refreshments table, he disappeared into the crowd like a shot, leaving her standing there like a wallflower.  Collins looked up and caught sight of the back of Dr. Morgan as he dashed off, and then glanced back at Abigail.  
  
“Oh for pity’s sake,” she heard him mutter before he returned to the conversation.  Apparently he’d washed his hands of any further attempts to help his colleague.  
  
Abigail couldn’t blame him.  If she didn’t find the entire thing so painfully amusing, she would be irritated.  She settled in, resigned to missing out on this dance.  Hopefully they’d catch the second one.  
  
In a few minutes, Dr. Morgan was back, and he handed her a cup of wine with a polite nod.  The USO organizers must have robbed a canteen somewhere, as it was all tin coffee mugs for the drinks.  It was hardly the crystal cut wine glasses of her family’s garden parties, but the wine was a treat and the heat of the hall a relief after months of constant pervasive damp cold that even three pairs of socks couldn’t dispel.  Since shipping out, she’d learned that luxuries were things like good company and safety, rather than fancy glassware and nice shoes.  
  
Dr. Morgan had turned his attention to the band, which had assembled a small makeshift stage at the far end of the large hall.  The trumpet player was standing and blasting brassy notes out over the crowd of dancers.  
  
“They’re good, aren’t they?” she said.  
  
He blinked over at her, as though he’d forgotten she was there.    
  
“Yes.  The trumpet player has excellent technique.  Judging by his phrasing I’d say classical training, though he mimics jazz stylings with passable dexterity.”  He frowned a little, returning his attention to the band.  “Not my favourite style, though I’m growing used to its pervasiveness.  The last thirty years, music has changed a great deal.”  Dr. Morgan trailed off into an absent tone, then took a deep breath and gave her a stiff smile.  “Anyway, a good band, yes.”  
  
“I’ve always enjoyed this particular style myself.  Very danceable,” she hinted heavily.  
  
“Yes, I suppose it is,” he said, his smile frozen, and then seemed lost for words.  He tipped his head towards the dance floor.  “Many others seem to think so too.”  
  
“And you?”  
  
He shook his head, almost apologetic, and turned his attention back to the band, his body tilting away from her.  
  
“Oh, I haven’t danced in a long time.”    
  
“Perhaps you haven’t found the right partner?”  
  
The only way she could deliver a heavier hint was to write it on a piece of paper, tie it to a rock and throw it at his head.  She caught him glancing briefly at her, and then away again just as quickly.  He made a noncommittal noise, then straightened up, stiff and formal.  
  
She narrowed her eyes.  That was it; she was determined to wheedle a dance invitation out of him now, if only as a point of pride.  She took a step up so that she was parallel to him and faced the dance floor, imitating his straight stance and watching the band with the same rapt attention.  From the corner of her eye she saw him check her over obviously, but she ignored him.  
  
They stood there quietly for the remainder of the dance, and when it ended Abigail put her cup down on the nearby table and applauded loudly, cheering along, and she was certain he was watching her as she did, but still she continued to ignore him.  The band leader called for a two-step, and excitedly everyone made the dash to find a new partner and a space on the floor.    
  
Dr. Morgan was definitely watching her now, and when she looked over at him, his eyes weren’t exactly on her face.  She winked at him when his gaze finally made its way back up, and he winced, caught out.  Instead of trying to deny it, he tipped his head towards her and raised his glass in a semi-toast.  
  
“I didn’t say it before, but you look lovely this evening, Nurse.”  
  
“Please, Abigail is fine.”  
  
“Yes.  Er, Abigail.”  
  
He said it like her name was a foreign word he didn’t understand but repeated out of politeness, and then turned back towards the dance floor with a sip of his wine.  
  
She tried hard not to pout outright, but it was a near thing.  From the moment she’d first seen him standing there in the snow as she clutched little Abraham, she’d felt a connection to him.  They’d ended up assigned to the same hospital once the relief forces were organized, and there were times when his excuses to have her work with him were so thin as to be nigh transparent.  They clicked, and she was certain he felt it too.  
  
Which made it all the more mystifying why he was trying so very, very hard to ignore her right now.   Surely he would ask her to dance at this point?  She wasn’t used to being turned down.  If there was anything to be said for front-line service, it was that a dance partner was never difficult to find, and a girl was spoiled for choice.  
  
Underscoring the point, a young British private coughed softly at her side to gain her attention.  
  
“Miss, could I have this dance?”  
  
He was ginger, eighteen if he was a day, fresh-faced and sincere and sweetly eager.  His nerves were obvious, and normally she’d have taken pity on him and accepted the offer—she always had a soft spot for the boys new from home, still naive and innocent and hapless.  She was sure she gave off some kind of field that let them know she was safe enough to ask.  She always turned them away if they requested a second, though, and chased them off to go find another girl, one who might be willing to entertain them afterwards.  Their enthusiasm was buoyant and energizing, and they always had some gossip on home, so she almost always accepted the first offer.  
  
Not tonight, though.  She was on a mission, and she was too far in to give up now.    
  
“Thank you, I’m afraid my dance card is full,” she said with a polite smile.  
  
The boy looked crushed, though he stuttered through a thank you and a little bow before he fled.  She smiled to herself, turning back to watch the dance floor.    
  
Dr. Morgan was inspecting her again.  She lifted her chin and made a show of continuing to watch the musicians, enjoying this game probably more than she should for someone experiencing a vexing cold shoulder response.  
  
“If you don’t mind me saying, your card doesn’t seem very full.”  
  
His voice was close enough that she jumped a little, not having heard him move closer to her and lean in.  He was still facing the dance floor as she was, but had moved shoulder to shoulder with her.  He took a sip from his cup, and she was sure he was smirking at having startled her.    
  
Not such a cold shoulder after all.  She looked back out at the whirling dancers.  
  
“It will be,” she answered confidently.    
  
She hoped, anyway.  It was going to be a long and dreary night if she spent it standing here turning down offers.  
  
They spent another full dance silently next to each other.  At one point Ruby spun by, still dancing with her dark-haired American admirer.  Catching sight of Abigail and Henry standing at the edge of the dance floor like scarecrows swaying in the breeze of an empty field, she rolled her eyes and mouthed “ _give it up_ ” quite obviously.  Abigail smiled sweetly and ignored her.  
  
The dance ended, followed by applause.  Abigail clapped, then folded her hands neatly in front of her, bounced on her toes twice, and settled in to wait again.  She avoided the gaze of a hopeful young man who cruised by, and wondered how many more dances she’d be standing here for.  
  
It was only ten more seconds before Dr. Morgan tapped his fingers on his cup, sighed, and downed the rest of his wine.  He put his cup down on the nearby table and extended his hand, palm up.    
  
“Very well,” he said, his expression amused and kind.  “If I may have this dance?”  
  
“Why yes you may, thank you for asking,” she said with a quick curtsy and no attempts to suppress her victorious grin.  
  
He led her onto the crowded floor.  With a gentle pull he brought her into position, placing a light hand on her back.  
  
“I have no doubt that were you a general in this war, it would have been over long ago, Nurse Rayne.”  
  
“It’s Abigail, Dr. Morgan,” she reminded him, following his lead as he moved into a quick foxtrot.    
  
“Call me Henry.”  
  
“Henry, then,” she agreed, far too pleased with herself to sound at all demure.  “I have found that doctors frequently require the guidance of sensible nurses on the correct course of action.  The job is not unlike military strategic planning.”  
  
He studied her carefully, then shook his head, fighting off a smile, trying for stern but failing.  
  
“You, Abigail, are incorrigible.”  
  
“Perhaps,” she agreed.  
  
He lost his battle and broke out into a dazzling smile.  He tightened his hold on her and spun them in step, guiding them through the couples to find space to move.  
  
Her self-satisfied sense of victory faded to the background, overtaken by the pleasant flush she always felt in Henry’s company.  There was no doubt that the feel of his hand on her back, his thumb just crossing over the low back of the dress to rest against her skin, was exciting enough alone to occupy her thoughts, never mind the confident way he guided them across the floor.  
  
Much to her delight, he was an excellent dancer.  She would have stuck out crushed toes and bruises for this dance, but it was much nicer not to have to grit her teeth and pretend it didn’t hurt.  
  
“You didn’t think I could dance, did you,” he asked, as though able to read her thoughts.  
  
She tipped her head, conceding to his question, and with a flourish he twisted her into a spin, then took tight hold and dipped her.  She gave a squeak of surprise, clutching at his shoulders and catching hold of his uniform jacket.  He brought her upright again and into position, a cheeky, smug grin plastered across his face.    
  
“You’re showing off now,” she accused with a laugh, exhilarated and a little out of breath from the dancing and the brief scare, holding onto him tight to keep in step with him.  
  
“Perhaps,” he shot back.  “Just making sure there was no confusion.”  
  
“Oh, I’m quite clear on the point now, thank you,” she said, trying to work it in between giggles.    
  
The bit of wine, the wild enthusiasm of the dancehall atmosphere, and Henry’s warmth soaking into her, were all making her lightheaded and silly.  She couldn’t help it; the music rolled over her, swelling horns and drums pounding over strings like staccato heartbeats, and everyone talking and laughing in a cacophony of joy made her heart sing.  
  
She met Henry’s gaze in a startling moment of unguarded directness.  He had been watching her with such deep inspection she felt like he really could see into her thoughts.  The giggles faded away under a flush of self-consciousness, and Henry’s eyes crinkled at the corners.  
  
“I’m sorry.  Your laughter is enchanting—I’ve always found it to be so.  I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”  
  
He had dark eyes, beautiful really, and she was caught at a loss for words.  Her face was hot, and she was certain she was blushing; a speculation supported by the growing smile curving Henry’s mouth.  
  
They jolted as another couple bumped into them.  
  
Henry delivered a hasty apology to the other two, but they waved it off with a laugh and danced on. Abigail ducked her head to hide her giggles, her cheek brushing the lapel and service ribbons on his chest.  Henry adjusted his grip on Abigail and pulled her in closer, dancing her backwards and around to find open space.  
  
Abigail cast around for something to say, but couldn’t think of anything except how close Henry held her; the space between them had evaporated under the excuses of a crowded dance floor and quick moves.  She gave up trying and relaxed into following Henry’s lead; his arms were steady and sure, direction clear, and it was effortless to rock in step with him.    
  
Henry was humming along; his voice was mellow and pleasant, barely heard above the music.  She wanted to ask him if he knew the words, but wasn’t sure if he realized he was doing it, and didn’t want to point it out to him in case it made him stop.  
  
The dance ended with a brassy flourish from the horn section, and the dancers drifted to a stop, applauding their appreciation for the band.  Henry released her and when she stepped back, he was beaming.  They both joined in the applause.  
  
“Thank you for the dance, Abigail,”  Henry said with a small bow and a click of his heels, and she laughed.  
  
“Not so bad, was it?” she teased.  
  
If she wasn’t mistaken, he seemed embarrassed to have been caught enjoying himself.  
  
“I believe I’ve survived the experience.”  
  
He offered her his elbow to escort her from the floor and she took it.  As they turned she saw Ruby clustered with the girls from the ward, gossiping with failed stealth about her and Henry.  Ruby winked at her and gave her an okay sign, but she could tell some of the other girls were considering their chances of finagling a dance out of the doctor now that Abigail had spearheaded the charge and softened him up.    
  
Henry groaned.  He’d followed her gaze and drawn the same conclusions.  He halted, stopping them both, and turned to Abigail to fix her with a mock pleading look.  
  
“Do a man a favour.  Save me from the Allied forces over there and stay for another dance?”  
  
The conductor was calling out a waltz and the partner shuffle was on, the two of them like rocks in the stream of moving bodies travelling to and fro as the couples mixed and matched around them.  She made a show of deliberation, and then took his hand and slipped into position—closer than was strictly necessary, if she were honest.  
  
“If you insist.  Anything to spare another girl that uphill battle.  I nearly gave up.”  
  
He lifted their joined hands into proper form, and his thumb swept over the back of hers in a soft caress.  Her cocky sure-footedness slipped out from under her.    
  
“I’m glad you didn’t,” he admitted.  
  
She was spared finding a response as the band started up and he began to move, leading her along to the quick-moving waltz.  It was just as well because her heart was in her throat and she wasn’t sure she would have managed anything sensible.  
  
  
***  
  
One more dance turned into two turned into three, and they danced until her face hurt from smiling and she was parched from whirling around.    
  
Henry held her hand as he led her from the floor, pulling her through the crowd with a quick and eager step, still full of energy.  He fetched two cups of water, handed one to her and downed the other himself.  They were both of them damp with sweat from the activity in the stifling hall, Henry’s hair challenging its neat coif and curling at the temples and at his neck, her own starting to escape all the carefully placed pins.  She felt around for a pin and plucked it out, twisting up a loose lock and tucking it back in.  
  
“Where did you learn to dance, Henry?”  
  
“My mother insisted that every young man must know his steps,” he said with an easy smile.  He gestured to the quick foxtrot taking place and leaned against the wall at her side.  “This though, she would have been appalled.  This I had to learn on my own.”  
  
“I’ll have to thank her for both her foundational teaching,” she said, patting her hair to make sure it was secure, “as well as instilling your inquisitive spirit.”    
  
“I am sure she would have taken as much credit as she could.  She was a formidable woman.”  
  
She didn’t miss the past tense.  A poor mis-step, to make a man think of his departed family at a party.  She cast about for a way to apologize without drawing his further attention to the subject, and she glanced up when Henry chuckled softly and shifted so his shoulder was leaning against the wall and he could face her.  
  
“It’s alright.”  He tipped his head towards her.  “You are a fine dancer yourself.  Though I’d expect nothing less of a lady of society.”  
  
“Henry, please,” she said, glancing around.  
  
She could do little about her accent, but she certainly didn’t feel like spreading around her family background.  It was hard enough the way her mother flaunted status like it was a weapon, she’d have no part of such action herself.    
  
“You could have joined the voluntary aid detachment if you wanted to come here,” Henry pointed out.  “It’s what most ladies do.”  
  
“I am not most ladies, thank you.” she said stiffly.  “I wished to practice medicine.  And when I go home after the war is over, I wish to continue.  Nursing is what I enjoy, not chasing the coat-tails of war.”  She winced, and glanced around again to make sure none of the VAD girls had heard her uncharitable words.  “Not that I think that of them, I don’t.  Anyone who stays longer than a week knows there’s no romance in caring for the injured.  I just meant, I had no illusions when I came what it meant to care for the sick and wounded.  And I knew it’s what I wanted.  I’ve wanted to be a nurse since I was a child.”  
  
Henry was silent, and she realized she’d let her mouth run away with her.  She was about to apologize when he nodded.  
  
“I felt the same way about becoming a doctor.  I used to bandage our dog up as a child.  I once destroyed my bed sheet to make bandages, much to the fury of my nanny.”  Abigail covered her mouth as she laughed at the image of a small Henry turned over his nursery maid’s knee amid a sea of shredded cloth.  Years dropped away from Henry as he beamed with innocent joy, like the naughty child he’d once been.  “I haven’t thought of that in so long, truly.”  
  
The band started tuning up, and Henry looked over, then back to Abigail, licking his lip.    
  
“I don’t suppose you’d care to dance some more?” he asked.  
  
Was he nervous that she might say no?  There wasn’t a chance of that happening.  
  
“Yes, absolutely.”  
  
His eyes sparkled as he took her hand and pulled her to the dance floor again, and Abigail’s heart was giddy and light in a way she’d never felt before.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
Sooner than she thought possible, the last dance of the evening was announced.  Abigail was already in Henry’s arms; they’d not bothered with the formality of reconfirming their dance partnership since the beginning of the evening, too enthralled with conversation and the smooth flow to the music to make such pretenses as though they might dance with others.  With ease and familiarity they fell into step as the band struck up a slow song.  Only her complete exhaustion gave away the many hours between that first dance and now.  
  
Henry held her hand to his chest and she leaned into him, near dead on her feet, but far too happy to think of sitting out.  
  
His cheek brushed her temple when they turned.  He hesitated, then settled into the contact with a soft motion, his lips almost against her skin.  She closed her eyes with a sigh.    
  
“Abigail.”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Don’t fall asleep on me,” he murmured, his voice warm with amusement.  
  
“I wouldn’t miss a moment of this for something as dull as sleep,” she responded with a laugh, and lifted her head, meeting his eyes.  
  
“It has been a wonderful dance,” he agreed.  
  
“I meant you, Henry,” she said, too tired and too infatuated to be circumspect.  “I don’t want to miss a moment with you.”  
  
He shifted his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together as he searched her face, eyes flickering to her mouth, and she was almost certain he might kiss her.  She hoped he would.  Instead he smiled gently and hugged her close, cheek against her temple once more.  His exhale was unsteady, curling and wafting her flyaway hairs against her cheek.  She closed her eyes once more, her heart pounding, as she absorbed the sound and feel of his breath.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The USO staff set to ushering the crowded hall into the waiting transport trucks to get everyone back to camp.  The lucky folks with passes wandered off into the night in search of local bars who’d either take their money or trade supplies for more drink, while everyone else found space where they could on the hard truck benches.  
  
Henry helped her with her coat and rested a hand on the curve of her back as he waited with her in the slow-moving crowd.  
  
A hand caught her arm and she turned to see Ruby, flush-cheeked.  She was still attached to her American officer, who looked like he’d seen the wrong end of a bottle.  He was barely standing, dopey and staring at Ruby with a ridiculous drunk leer.  Ruby pulled Abigail from Henry and leaned in to speak quietly in her ear.    
  
“Headed back already?”  
  
“No pass,” she returned, glancing past Ruby to the weaving soldier clinging to Ruby’s hand.  “You?”  
  
“Two days,” she said with a grin.  “Assuming he wakes up in a decent condition, it’s gonna be a fun leave.”  
  
“Ruby!” she said, giggling.  Ruby’s brashness was somewhere between inspiring and scandalizing.  
  
Ruby leaned in closer to whisper.    
  
“I don’t know how you managed it, but he’s so sweet on you, it’s disgusting.  You’ll be happy to know most of the girls are jealous enough to spit.  Eleanor figures you put something in his drink.”  Ruby pecked Abigail on the cheek.  “Don’t let him get away without at least a goodnight kiss. Have fun.”  
  
Abigail blushed as Ruby pulled away.  She gave Abigail a little wave and shepherded her conquest off in the direction of town.  
  
When Abigail turned back to Henry, he raised an eyebrow, glancing after Ruby and back to her with a question in his eyes.  Abigail shrugged and returned to his side, tucking herself under his arm, starting to feel the cold.  
  
“Saying goodnight.  She’s on leave for two days.”  
  
“I see.”    
  
Noting her shiver, he pulled her close and chafed her arm to help keep her warm as they shuffled up to the truck.  Henry helped her clamber in before joining her, and they squeezed into a spot on the bench near the cab.  As the truck filled and they crushed closer and closer to each other, Henry tugged her hand.  
  
“Come here.”  
  
He pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her, and she let her head fall on his shoulder with a sigh.  He was warm against the chill of the night, and the hubbub of the rest of the men and women crammed into the truck fell away as she settled into Henry’s embrace.    
  
The dreamy twilight of her exhaustion made her bold, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck and shoulder, pressing her nose to his warm skin.  She dozed off and on as they drove, waking with every large jolt of the truck over the rough roads, then nodding off again in between.  She wasn’t sure which was the dream, when she slept or when she woke; the wool of Henry’s dress uniform beneath her cheek and his neck against her lips slid into sleep with her, and were there when she woke again.  The temptation was too much and she kissed his soft skin; he tasted of salt and the long night of dancing behind them, and she felt his pulse racing beneath her tongue and lips.  
  
“Abigail,” he chastised softly.    
  
“Sorry,” she murmured against his skin, making him shiver.  
  
“Did I mention incorrigible?” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear.  
  
“Mm,” she agreed.  
  
She wasn’t remotely sorry, but she nuzzled his neck and subsided, the rocking of the truck lulling her, and she drifted off again.  
  
  
***  
  
  
He woke her when they arrived at camp, and along with the others they started the walk back to the barracks.  The cold wind off the nearby river revived her, helping to wake her the rest of the way.  
  
“May I see you back to your barracks?”  Henry asked, the shine of the truck lights catching his eyes in the dark.  
  
“That would be nice,” she said.  
  
She slipped her hand into his, as natural as breathing.  They strolled silently together along the line of buildings, and Abigail let hers slip by without comment, too taken with Henry’s company to want to part yet.  Eventually they reached the end of camp, and Henry came to a halt.  
  
“This must be yours, then.”  
  
“Oh, no.  It’s back there,” she said with an airy wave over her shoulder, quelling a flutter of nerves, and tried for a wide smile instead.  “We passed it ages ago.”  
  
She wondered if he would be irritated by her obvious ploy.   He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand once, clearly waffling with indecision, then nodded slowly.  
  
“Well, perhaps we can walk for a bit more.  The river is beautiful; its just a stretch onward.  Close enough they won’t send the MPs after us for going AWOL.”  
  
She laughed lightly at the joke, and they walked on.  She could barely think for the flurry of excited nerves that coursed through her as her imagination flitted over the idea of private kisses in the dark, the sound of Henry’s breath in her ear, the taste of his skin.  She gripped his hand tight as he led them along a narrow path between the bushes, cautious of the uneven rocks beneath her heeled shoes.  The river came into sight, a bend with a bed of flat stones jutting out into the lazily moving water, the faint glitter of a sliver of moon lighting the ripples now and again.  They picked their way to the water’s edge, and Abigail was quiet, suddenly shy with nerves now that it was just the two of them.  
  
“Why the military?” Henry asked into the silence.  
  
He was watching the river, and then looked to her.  She couldn’t read his expression.  She was caught at a loss for an answer, her thoughts having been far from daily life.  
  
“You could have stayed at home, been a nurse there,” he said.  “But you came here.  To—to this.  All of this.”  
  
He waved a hand, indicating the landscape around them, but meaning that which lay beyond what they could see—the bombed out buildings, the town that shivered in fear, windows blacked out, the wounded who moaned and writhed in their beds in the hospital.  He fell silent again, and though she didn’t follow the direction of his thoughts entirely, the sincerity of his attention pulled her along with him.  
  
Trying not to feel entirely disappointed, she leaned against his side, and he put an arm around her as she scrolled through fuzzy memories.  They seemed farther away than a mere five years, driven into the distant past by many miles travelled, and years of struggle and violence witnessed.  
  
“Well,” she said slowly, “England declared war on my nineteenth birthday—my birthday, of all days.  But it felt significant.  It felt like I’d been specifically requested.”  
  
The first hospital she’d worked in after graduation had been destroyed in the night in one of the early bombing raids.  The girl who had switched a shift with her, working the night shift, hadn’t survived.  Abigail still thought of that simple “ _yes, not a problem_ ” she’d said to the girl who asked for the switch, barely paying attention as she restocked bandages in the ward supply cart. Four little words that spared her life, echoing in her mind as she stood outside the crater that had been the hospital when she turned up for work the next morning.  She’d been too numb to cry.  Shortly after, walking by a recruiting table at a market, she’d signed her name to the register.  
  
Five years later, she couldn’t even remember the poor girl’s name.  
  
“You’re twenty-five,” Henry said quietly.  “Twenty-five years old.”  
  
“Yes,” she said, confused.  “And?”  
  
He put a hand across the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes, and then dropped it to look up at the night sky.  
  
“I am so bloody _old_ ,” he said with a sigh.  
  
“What is this, fear of middle age creeping up on you, Henry?”  His tone pricked her pride, but she kept her response light.    
  
His short laugh held no humour.  
  
“Middle aged. At this point, I’d take it.”  
  
She frowned, put off by his strange melancholy.  She shifted around to stand in front of him and reached up to put a hand in his hair, ruffling the curls that had long since escaped his careful combing.    
  
“Afraid of balding and grey hairs, is that it, Dr. Morgan?”  
  
He caught her hand before she withdrew it and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles.  His contrite expression told her he hadn’t missed her irritation.  
  
“I didn’t mean to slight you,” he said.  “It’s not that.  It’s…” he sighed, rubbing his thumb over her hand and studying it as he thought.  “I don’t know.  Perhaps it’s this war.  The repetition, the jingoism, the pointlessness of it.  Makes me feel even older than my years.”  
  
“Were you always such a cynic, Henry?”  
  
“No, I suppose not.  But life teaches harsh lessons.”  
  
If it was a reference to her age, or her experience, or some innocence he supposed she still had, she didn’t know.  She felt a sudden pity for his obvious soul-deep weariness; she’d seen it in too many people, some much younger than him, younger than herself, who’d lost hope when the shadow of death seemed too heavy to bear.  
  
“Life is kinder than you imagine it to be,” she said gently.  He studied her, and she cupped his face in her hands, trying to reassure him, to pull him back from whatever dark hole his thoughts had fallen into.  “I know the world can be cruel, and arbitrary, and unfair—I know it as well as you, no matter how many years stand between us.  But I’ve seen mercy, and caring, and people fighting to save those who deserve to be saved.  There’s death here, but there’s hope, too.  Have faith, Henry.  We won’t be at war forever.”  
  
Beneath her hands, Henry’s jaw tensed, and he swallowed.  After a moment he gave her a lopsided smile and reached up to take her hands and pull them to his chest, holding them tight.  
  
“Perhaps I would do well to listen to your wisdom.”  
  
“Someone has to keep you cynical old men young,” she said with a smile.  “Don’t give up on the beautiful things in life just yet.”  
  
“I’ll try,” he promised, some of his teasing tone creeping back into his words.  
  
“Good.”  
  
She said it with a firm nod, as though the subject were sorted, and he laughed, his eyes lighting up with such adoration that her breath caught in her throat.  His smile faded, that same stillness coming over him when they’d danced, as his eyes travelled over her face, settling on her lips.  
  
Still he didn’t kiss her.  She was going to go mad if he didn’t kiss her.  She ran through a host of reasons why he was doing this, holding back like this.  She settled on one of her fears, and spoke up.  
  
“Henry?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Are you married?”  
  
“No, not married,” he answered, his voice quiet.  
  
“Then…”    
  
The way he looked at her, she felt like he didn’t see or hear a thing but her.  God knew it was how she felt when she looked at him.  
  
She couldn’t take it a moment longer.  Bollocks to the rules, she wasn’t going to let him slip away over shyness, reticence, or whatever it was that held him back.  She guided their hands apart and moved so her body was close against his.  His startled intake of breath sent a shot of fear through her, and she hoped she hadn’t just made a terrible mistake.  Even so, she’d already done it, so no point taking it back now.  
  
“In case it wasn’t perfectly obvious already, you can kiss me,” she said, and her nerves were definitely showing now.  She couldn’t keep her voice steady, and she almost ran out of air before she could finish her invitation.  
  
What kind of girl said a thing like that to a man?  It was one thing to drop hints, but this was forward, even for her.  Though, no more forward than the boldness that had left her lipstick on the skin above his collar.  She’d already crossed so many lines with Henry that she had little to lose.  
  
She bit her lip, waiting for anything.  
  
He shook his head silently, eyes wide with absolute gobsmacked confusion, and the disappointment was too much to bear.  She felt like a fool.  
  
Before she could back away with apologies and make a clean exit, he leaned down swiftly, catching her with lips parted.  Open, intimate, his tongue and lips against hers, and she melted against him, her whole body on fire with the incredible shock of it.  
  
She’d never been kissed like this before, never had the whole world disappear into the feel and smell of someone, and she was certain she couldn’t possibly ever kiss anyone else without it paling in comparison to this moment.  He dropped her hands and put his arms around her, crushing her to him.  She was wrapped up in his warmth, the sweet smell of cologne, the wool of his uniform jacket, the heat of him filling her head and her body.  
  
He slowly withdrew from the kiss, and she was dizzy and off-balance, grateful for his hold.  
  
“Abigail,” he murmured, his voice shaking.  His breath was warm against her lips.  “This isn’t—we shouldn’t—“  
  
“Kiss me again.”  
  
She couldn’t bear to hear his objections, whatever they might be.  
  
His eyes were near black in the murky light as he stroked her cheek, and with a helpless shake of his head, then a growing smile, he put his lips to hers.  She wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on her toes, closing her eyes to the creeping dawn.  
  
Nothing could ever compare to this.  She could spend a lifetime doing this.    
  
She brushed her cheek against his when the kiss broke, and his sigh ruffled the hair at her ear.  He nuzzled her temple, his lips warm as they moved, dropping small kisses, before he stopped and pulled her tight in his embrace.  She laid her cheek on his chest, able to hear his heartbeat through his clothes, and the rhythm matched her own.    
  
She was overwhelmed, a little confused, and yet enthralled by his gentleness.  She was used to the impatient, desperate enthusiasm of love in this place where happiness was only found in stolen moments.  Henry had a solid strength to him that lulled her; as though he made each moment worth lingering over, not to be rushed.    
  
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said, and his fingers worked into her loose hair.  She shivered as it moved the sensitive hairs at the back of her neck.  “I’ve met a lot of people, and never someone like you.”  
  
“You’re one of a kind yourself,” she sighed.  
  
“Maybe so.”  He laughed quietly, and kissed the top of her head.  “You make me foolish.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
The morning dew was settling and Abigail shivered.  Instead of suggesting they return, Henry freed himself from her embrace long enough to unbutton his jacket and open it, letting her slip inside and cuddle against his warm chest.  He wrapped the sides of it around her as best he could.  
  
“I don’t remember the last time I stayed up all night for a good reason,” Henry said, his voice barely louder than the burbling flow of the river.    
  
He was swaying with her just enough to soothe her; she was fighting it, but her eyes were drooping, sleep demanding her attention.  His warmth and rocking was like a drug pulling her down, and all she managed was a quietly hummed agreement.    
  
There were too many long nights of men blasted into pulp marching like a gruesome parade through hospitals, makeshift tents, wherever they were sent.   Right now, it seemed so far away.  Henry eclipsed it all.  
  
“Do you think it’s possible to fall in love in one night?” she sighed, sleepy and content.    
  
Beneath her ear, his heart leapt into frantic action, a terrified burst of patter, and his fingers paused their gentle movement in her hair.  She smiled, nuzzling closer.  
  
“Don’t be frightened, Henry.  Love isn’t so terrible.”  
  
He said nothing.  His silence didn’t bother her; the warmth of his breath as he kissed the top of her head again, and the way his arms tightened around her, said more than enough.

They held each other in silent comfort until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer.  She yawned, and Henry echoed her, then rested his chin on her head.  
  
“I have to sit down before I fall down,” she said, her voice scratchy.    
  
They parted, and Henry’s eyes were drowsy, shadowed with sleeplessness, just as hers likely were, but he looked happy and content.  Hand in hand they picked their way back along the riverbank, by silent agreement stopping by the larger rocks at the edge.  They found a spot where they could sit and lean comfortably.  Henry crossed his legs and made a chair for her, and she settled into his lap with her back to his chest.  
  
“Where will you go when the war is over?” she asked, trying to keep herself awake.    
  
He hummed thoughtfully, his nose cold from the dawn air as he brushed it against her neck.  
  
“Back to New York, I suppose.  It’ll be long enough since I’ve been gone.”  
  
“Is that home?”  
  
“It is now,” he sighed.  “I always seem to end up back there.”  
  
“Maybe you can show me someday,” she mumbled, feeling like she was flickering in and out of wakefulness.  She wanted to stay with him, not let this moment fade.  “I’ve always wanted to see New York.”  
  
His breath was warm in her hair.  
  
“I’d like that,” he whispered.    
  
“Tell me about it?”  She shifted so she could lean her face against his chest, and closed her eyes.  “Anything.”  
  
“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, stroking her head, his voice slow and heavy with sleep.  “At this time of year, there might still be snow.  If you stand in Central Park, you can see the buildings rising on all sides, dusted in white.  So much life, so many people, all together in such a small place, it’s like a different city in every block.  It was so quiet the first time I was there, but over the years…”  
  
She drifted off listening to his soft words, dreaming of Henry and a bustling city and the future.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I've Got You Under My Skin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3475958) by [Steamshovelmama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steamshovelmama/pseuds/Steamshovelmama)




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